Thursday, April 9, 2009

Bat Bent

bent to stomach call the sandbox
thrash an wrinkle all the thumbs
you an corner you an bees
you an toweling in your ashpit
whatta gasoline you coined wha
tta glristening you faced the
toltec stammered in the
stream steam clouded was
with gnats an crusts of
walls some writing “like” a
thumb was opened to a
book of “endless blood” a
tomb silvered with bats

White Lungs

betcha never huh ?dab the do
nut an yr clot hamper that’s yr
fog wrassle ,spot a beat ,mimo y
mismo lo ,que trenza cae del
techo y mis wrinkled coins listen
,can’t you ,but what’s the ,not
,just nada mind .the cave with plas
ter teeth the river with plaster
eyes the mouth with plaster lungs...

Was It a Nap?

bullt ,or “it” “et” “at” ‘s a kinda
hot o off the crawlsalot .deng sho
otin’ fog what tongue’s not there
)ho mattock( dozens buzzins ,ept
to ,fonografics ,spidery ,clumpy
trees far off to left an how
ling prim ates the scrawling lunch
.spilt or sat or set or sit...
closed my hands and folded my eyes


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